


Because Torture Means 'to Twist'

by Rubyjooce



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Crime, Drama, I'm Sorry, M/M, Murder, Murder Mysery, Romance, Suspense, discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyjooce/pseuds/Rubyjooce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED. I'm really sorry. <br/>A series of murders is related by an unsettling factor; Sherlock and John unravel the mystery whilst deciphering their own innermost workings. Could the murders be hitting closer to home than they thought? Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Scent of Oranges

**Author's Note:**

> ALL BOW TO MY BETA: Slendyswatchingme. She is brilliant.

Chapter One: A Scent of Oranges

 

These were the first things Sherlock Holmes observed:

Asphalt, typical coating of soot-dust and grime, noted salty tang in the air; attributed to proximity of the quay, precisely 43 degrees North North-East from the location of the swarming of blue-clad buffoons surrounding the position of the victim.

The yard, an abandoned strip of tar between two industrial storage warehouses- mostly steel beams, judging from the sheer size and oblong shape of the visible containers- was forlorn and bedraggled, the leftovers of an early morning drizzle chased across the ribs of exposed roof supports, the skeletal remnants of a similar storage structure.

“Bloody rain.”

The disconsolate grumble came from Doctor John Watson, neck retracted into the upright leather trimmed collar of his jacket, the zip pulled to his nose, looking for all the world like a grumpy tortoise. Sherlock smirked at him. John just frowned himself deeper into the meager warmth.

“Alright there.” Detective Inspector Lestrade ambled over, nodding curtly and breathing onto his hands.

“Alright, Greg,” Replied John.

“How’s the body?” Sherlock said mockingly, rolling his eyes at John’s insistence at maintaining banal pleasantries.

Lestrade just sighed and began to explain.

“A Woman. Looks about thirties, found by the security patrol at six this morning, naked- though no signs of sexual violence – in that chair over there. There’s some weird red blistering on her fingertips. We’re going through recent missing persons matching her description, hopefully something will turn up.”

Sherlock approached the body. Her hands were more weathered than her face, no sign of greying at temples and hair dark brown; natural colour, and pierced but the jewelry removed. No makeup- no regular residue either, a small shine on the bridge of her nose, yes, both sides. John bobbed at his left shoulder, moving to inspect pink bubbles of froth at the corners of her mouth as Sherlock circled and sniffed at her hair.

“Have you moved her at all?” He was gazing at the hands, one folded over, and one palm up on the thigh.

“No, none.”

“And you’re sure it’s murder?” John asked.

“’Course it is; body posed like this? Naked? Though we’re not sure if the killer was a stranger, we can’t see any signs of a struggle.”

“Very good Lestrade, you’re improving.” Sherlock’s deep, caressing voice at odds with his condescension. John flashed him a disgruntled tilt of his eyebrow.

“Cause of death, Doctor?” He continued smoothly.

“Blood in the lungs; a Post Mortem should confirm whether it was heart failure or infection, though I can’t see any signs of prolonged illness. Dead maybe early last night; I’d say around nine o’clock.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock ran a gloved finger over one wrist; a strong bunching of muscles at the bottom of the thumb: right- handed. Small lacerations focused on the inside of the middle finger-too deep for paper cuts, also neater, all were similarly angled- a Pen Nib? Ah, no writer’s callous- indentation and wear on nail of forefinger-Oh! He looked to the ‘weird red blisters’ on all ten of her fingers, God was everyone so stupid? How could they not know what they were? - And one more run down the opposite wrist. But wait he needed bare fingers…

“John?” He beckoned and opened his hand to the side.

John just peered quizzically at him.

“Hand, your hand, give it to me.”

He placed his hand hesitantly palm up in the detective’s grip. So trusting, Sherlock thought, and then promptly scooped John’s fingers over the cold dead skin of the woman’s sleeve line.

“What the hell!” The doctor jumped and tried to pull back; but failed. The detective merely smiled at the light powdering on John’s fingers. So clear against that tan.

He grinned. The doctor gingerly swiped his hand on a disinfectant swab proffered by Lestrade.

He checked the feet and ankles, lifted up the heel of one, and peered a moment longer at the toes.

“Well?” Lestrade hoisted his chin up and folded his hands underneath his arms, like stiff, corduroy-covered wings.

“Thirty three, works in a lab; chemical engineering of a sort- but academic, in research, not particularly commercial. Her glasses are missing. Never married, avid skier, money must come from her family. And the killer knew, of course, about the regular skiing, and sent us those ice cubes as a message.”

John was giving him that look of floored awe again. Sherlock stretched against the velvet of his inner jacket, preening ever so slightly.

“Wait, Ice-cubes?” It was the scoff of Sally Donovan, hand triangled on her hip superciliously. “How the bleeding hell would you know that?

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably at her words. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John sniffed and set his teeth firmly; eyes forwards but decidedly not looking at Sally.

“Her hand, the palm of her hand, Donovan, is wet.” Sherlock huffed. “And before you say it was the rain, take a moment to observe that it is the overturned left hand that is wet, an impossible feat for a dead body to turn its hand over, wouldn’t you say?” His snide words barreled through Sally’s attempt to retort.

“No, the only explanation is an outside source of water, which the killer must have put there, and judging by the level of condensation and amount that has evaporated, even in this dreary weather it has to have come from the melting of a volume of water consistent with that of an ice-cube.”

“How...?” Lestrade’s expression of wonderment was not nearly as pleasing as John’s one Sherlock noted curiously.

Sally threw her hands up in dismissal, and Sherlock noted with petty delight that the vigorous twist of her heel splashed murky water onto her stockinged ankle.

John relaxed only fractionally, but Sherlock caught the movement and internally quirked an eyebrow.

‘Tell us the rest about this body then, Sherlock.” Lestrade brought his attention back.

“Small cuts to the inner middle finger consistent with a sharp edge, small and neat; so a blade of sorts, regular and similarly angled, so a repetitive movement. Callous on forefinger next to her nail shows a tool held to perform downwards pressure- must be a scalpel.”

He valiantly attempted to stop his eye roll at the looks on their faces.

“How can you be sure she’s not a doctor or something?”

“She is a doctor, Lestrade,” Sherlock sighed. “Obviously she has a professional degree, even if her field is not medicine.”

John’s eyes swept the floor in chagrin at Sherlock’s trivial correction.

“She does not smell of hospital disinfectant, nor do her feet show typical signs of repeat stress- as a medical practitioner’s would- clearly she has the luxury of a seat while she works. She does smell, however, of oranges, now, what does that tell us?”

“A perfume, of sorts, or skin cream?” John piped up.

“Perfume would not persist for so long. Lingering of the smell implies repeated exposure to the chemical. Maybe cosmetic cream, but the absence of any make- up and no implication of prolonged make-up use doesn’t lend itself to the idea that she was particularly rigorous in such areas. Therefore; coupled with the evidence of the scalpel, we can gather that the chemical is D-limonene often used in histopathology, which facilitates cutting of thin sections for microscopy- thus chemical engineering.”

John had an open, happy expression on his face, his _rough_ face; he had neglected to shave this morning- most likely to do with the weather. Sherlock’s hand began to smooth over his chin. His own scrub took far longer to appear, so he never really knew what that felt like. Sherlock cleared his throat, dropping the hand he didn’t realize he had moved.

“So you said skiing,” John began, “which means the sores on her fingers are mild frostbite? They certainly look like frostbite.”

“Quite correct, John. This is easily confirmed by inspection of her ears and toes, which show regular healing of exposure to low temperatures.”

“Brilliant...”

Sherlock smiled, just a small lifting of lips as he caught John’s eye. Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Text me her name, Lestrade, when you find it. Come on, John.”

Sherlock pulled off the rubber gloves and, tossing them unceremoniously at a passing Bobby, strode back to the street.

“I’m surprised, Sherlock, whole minutes with minimal condescension.” John said merrily once out of earshot.

Sherlock chuckled.

“Although you did use my hand as a wet-wipe on a corpse, you prat, what was that all about?”

“All in good time John; my suspicions will be confirmed when Lestrade sends through her details.”

“You mean when you dig up her address and we break into her house?”

Sherlock grinned again, lifting five fingers at a slowing taxi.

“Exactly.”


	2. West End Thespian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by the wonderful Slendyswatchingme.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, and a special thank-you to DessMia for the comment last chapter!

Chapter Two: West End Thespian

There was one yellow-shaded bulb hanging in the middle of the corridor; it was swinging slightly from the breeze blowing in through the open window.

Just beyond the oval of light, two figures hunch against the wall, one standing up with his back to the other, kneeling at a door, making odd scrabbling noises.

“Are you bloody done yet?”

“Oh stop complaining, you know my best set was pocketed by Lestrade.”

“And thank god he didn’t arrest you, you idiot.”

“Psh, the evidence was circumstantial at best.”

“If you don’t hurry your arse up I’ll tell you exactly how ‘circumstantial’ the evidence of our arrest will be.”

There was a smooth click.

“There; we’re in.”

John sighed with relief and toed through the doorway, the long shadow that was Sherlock on his heels.

The apartment was rather bohemian, John assessed. The beam of his torch drew over a dark wooden demi-lune; keys cradled in a grey beaded basket, large, multi-coloured rugs that seemed to be made of rolled ropes of thread, with the uneven dye patches and frayed edges of something hand-made. The walls were bright yellow between large framed posters; most of which were replicas of artworks and advertisements for dramatic productions.

Sherlock muttered his way around, nudging at the rainbow of book spines that lined the walls of what appeared to be a sitting room, the TV rather an afterthought, shoved into a nook with a patterned throw over it, and a roughly pottered blue vase squatting on top, complete with sprigs of lavender protruding stiffly, a parody of an antenna.

Sherlock disappeared around the corner. John turned in the opposite direction and scoped out the kitchen and bathroom. Nothing he could identify of significance except, he smiled wryly, a notable lack of any cosmetics, let alone one that smelled of oranges.

“In here!” He heard Sherlock’s excited hiss from the recesses of the flat. John found him in the bedroom, eyes rifling through the contents of a white dressing-table drawer.

John’s eyes roved over the rouge-coloured room; a black oriental paper lamp shaded the hanging globe, and on the edge of the quilt-covered bed sat a laptop that Sherlock had already booted up and hacked into. The dressing table that Sherlock loomed over was crowned with jewellery, a mixture of gaudy cheap costume and shimmering slivers of delicate chains.

“The reason I used your hand on the body.” Whispered Sherlock softly but triumphantly, holding a plastic baggie aloft. It seemed to be... rather luridly pink.

 Sherlock just waited, his eyes fixed on John, the only glint of radiance in a matte blur of obscurity. A moment of nonplussed consternation pulsed by.

“What is it?” John said.

Sherlock sagged dramatically, sighing lowly.

“Dental dams, John.”

“Oh!” John said, understanding dawning, then fading.”  No way, how could you have gotten to _that_ from the weird powder I scooped up?”

Sherlock stepped closer, the bag of amusingly pink dental dams back in the drawer, a one sided smile tugging at his right cheek.

“It wasn’t a powder,” Sherlock muttered, “It was her skin, flaking off because of an allergic reaction.”

John grimaced and peered with displeasure at his own appendage - gloved also - as a precaution against leaving accidental fingerprints.

Sherlock carried on with his explanation.

“She displayed an allergic reaction, but the affected area was extremely localized.”

Sudden spindly fingers crept around the back of John’s hand and pried the absently curled grasp open. John struggled down a jolt at the sudden invasion of personal space.

Sherlock flattened out john’s acquiescent hand.

“Here and here,” He said as he brushed a touch over the tips and the wrist. “And at the corners of her mouth. Meaning, of course, that whatever she reacted to she had only handled, and also, well...”

John nodded. One of Sherlock’s hands dropped away, but the leather-fingered circlet around the middle of his palm remained.

“An allergy of this sort is commonly caused by an aversion to a metal alloy or a plastic. The area of the reaction means it was unlikely to be a metal, Localized to the fingers and wrist, but not the palm, particularly? So it was latex, which of course has just been confirmed.”

John was registering the words a few seconds after they were spoken, trapped in the crackling intensity of Sherlock’s musings.

“That, and the ‘hidden’ literature, ‘hidden’ pornography folder and certain correspondence with a Miss Gloria Meadows on her Facebook account all tell us that Miss Veronica Dalton was a lesbian.”

John’s eyes crinkled as he grinned. The heat from his brown-clad hand was seeping into the black-clad fingers Sherlock still had looped around him.

“Amazing...” He breathed.

“Naturally,” Sherlock replied slowly, mirth toying at the dimples in his face.

A loud clang and an indignant ‘Mraow!’ broke the tension and shot them through with adrenaline.

They wrenched away from each other and into the curves of the deeper shadows. Nothing happened for few jittery, panicked seconds. Eventually John broke the silence.

“Have you got what you need?” He asked in a mutter.

Sherlock nodded then voiced a ‘yes’ when he remembered John couldn’t see a nod in the dark.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Not a soul except for two scraggly alley-cats saw them creep down the fire escape and hurry away from the building.

Back in the cosiness of 221B, Sherlock was languishing across the couch and John snug in the red squashy armchair; tea in front of them both.  John fell into a study, his glance flitting across the prone Consulting Detective.

“John, you’re staring.”

John blinked and refocused on the detective’s face.

“You need to eat more.”  He said finally.

“Hmm... dull.”  Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh.

John sipped his milky tea and mentally rolled his eyes.

“So what do you figure? Any leads, do you think?”

“Well, you already know the most important nugget of information, John.”

“That she was gay? Is that Gloria you mentioned her girlfriend then?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sherlock brought his hands together beneath his chin, frowning. “They’re sleeping together, but she was hiding it, that’s for sure.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said almost absently. “Various books on ‘coming out’ and other such titles were slipped into false dustcovers, her Facebook proclaimed ‘interested in men’ and then of course the conversational allusions to ‘keeping things quiet’ in her replies to Miss Meadow’s messages. I suspect it’s to do with her hiding her sexuality because her parents would disapprove.”

“ _How_ did you find the books? No, wait, don’t answer that- what did you discover about her parents?”

“Deduce, John, not discover,” Sherlock drawled lazily. John merely huffed.

“Well,” Sherlock said, “that quilt on her bed was hand-made, and at least as old as she is. She keeps it on her bed but it doesn’t quite fit with the decor of the rest of the flat- it has sentimental value. Usually people have no such qualms about leaving mementos from their childhood behind- but not her. Why?”

John shrugged. “Maybe she’s just sentimental; it reminds her of something happy.”

“Perhaps, but look at the jewellery on her dressing table; everything was haphazard, except for one crucifix: it was lying in a velvet box, placed reverently- must have been a gift, then- but it showed no signs of wear. It was obviously given to her by one or both of her parents, and at an early age if she still keeps it, but she doesn’t dare wear it. Why?”  Sherlock’s eyes were dancing now; he had sat up and was gesticulating with his hands and elbows, prodding at the air, tracing invisible threads of connection.

“She feels guilty? They’re traditional; maybe wouldn’t deal very well with her being gay?”

“Exactly, John.”

“I can understand that, I suppose...” John frowned, gnawing on his bottom lip in thought.

 “You’re right to wonder, there is more to it.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“There was an envelope on a side table in the sitting room, addressed from a Mr and Mrs Dalton, very fine stationary. The letter itself was gone, but judging from her clothes- all genuine brands and all of high quality- and the evidence of overseas travel- the Chilean rugs you surely noticed, as well as the murano glass and the Indian throws- well, it’s obvious that her parents have money, and Miss Dalton has been allocated a substantial portion of that money as an allowance, so it seems.”

“The letter was some sort of cheque then? Was she killed for her money do you think?”

“Doubt it; the body was placed far too... personally... for it to have been a boring and simple motivation like greed.”

John coughed a little laugh.

 “Only you would think greed is a ‘boring and simple’ motive.”

Sherlock ignored the comment.

“She is obviously dedicated to the arts, and yet she is a chemical engineer.”

“That’s not particularly unusual.”

“Not a single book on chemistry? No science journals? Not even a New Scientist magazine lying about? She was hardly interested in chemistry as a career. But yet she persists, well into her life, with something that doesn’t make her happy.”

“Loads of people are saddled with shit jobs, Sherlock. There’s always the pressure to make money, not to mention all the pressure from your family who ‘just want you to do well for yourself’...oh, I see...her parents pushed her into it?”

Sherlock grinned as John came to the same conclusion he had done.

“They did indeed. Miss Dalton liked her creature comforts too much to give up on her parents’ approval. That and she was too cowardly to make her own way in life.”

“Sherlock!” John said, appalled.

“What?”

“You can’t just call somebody a coward- especially not just ‘cause she’s trying to shield her folks from what she knows they won’t like- she needs their approval, what’s so bad about that.”

“It’s stupid.’

“It’s what people feel!”

“Well then obviously people are stupid.”

John hung his head in defeat.

“You’re a bloody child, you know that?”  He said, but his voice held no malice, only a mix of exasperation and affection.

Sherlock stood up and shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. John stood up and yawned.

“Get some sleep, Sherlock.” John patted him absently on the shoulder as he turned to trudge to his bedroom.

It was a long moment before the slender pillar of Sherlock moved, frozen by the arbitrary contact of John’s warm hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> West end thespian: The cockney term for lesbian. You can see it rhymes. I discovered this word and was utterly delighted; it is just too darling. (You can so tell I’m not British)
> 
> Dental Dams: Squares of plastic that are meant for safe sex- really they are only used if your partner has genital warts... I was absolutely tickled when I pulled them out of the random (embarrassing) safe sex packs they handed out at my first gay pride parade...they were really absurdly neon pink.
> 
> Bulltoast alert: I made up the thing about the allergy to the dental dam plastic. I have heard of allergic reactions to condoms and so it follows that there should be one to dental dams but I have no clue as to what the reaction is. Just roll with it? (sheepish grin)
> 
> Please please review! What do you like so far, what don’t you like? Any questions or comments at all are welcome!


	3. I recant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed By the fantastic: Slendyswatchingme.

Chapter Three: I Recant

“Sherlock , you can’t sit around and annoy me for the rest of the day.”

“And why not? I seem to be doing a rather good job of it so far.”

John looked up from his laptop, the man who was hanging up sheets of paper, each soaked in one of a colourful assortment of chemicals. Not one of Sherlock’s more noxious experiments, but certainly one of his more annoying, considering that the hanging line zigzagged across the main living area.

Apparently, he was testing the corrosion rate of different household acids on printer paper; but as far as John could see it was yet another innovative way to interrupt his calm day-off morning telly watching.

“What else do you propose I do, John? Unless you’ve secreted away any delightful little analgesics I doubt that your suggestions will hold much water with me.”

John sighed and attempted to land a stern glance on the darting genius from in between the dripping sheets.

“You _could_ go see that new body.”

“No.”

“It’s a _dead_ _body_ , Sherlock, how could it not be interesting?” John insisted.  He blinked at his own words, and then broke into a small fit of slightly desperate sounding giggles, forehead buried in both hands.

Sherlock poked his head around a green-tinged sheet to watch John mutter repudiations into his fuzzy grey jumper collar.

“You need a case Sherlock.”

“I _have_ a case, John”

“It’s at a dead end and you know it.”

Sherlock shot him a scathing look.

“I’m _absolutely_ sure that there was an ice-cube in her hand, the killer knew her - or about her at least. Lestrade is an idiot to discount that.”

“I never said a thing about the ice-cubes! Besides, Lestrade’s just doing his job, you _know_ that.”

Sherlock just prodded a sodden blue sheet of paper.

“The imbeciles can’t even determine the cause of the oedema; I’m surprised they even have a job to speak of.”

John sipped his tea patiently.

“How about we go down to the Yard and see that body? I’ll even give you a cigarette for Christmas.”

Sherlock managed to remain aloof for all of three seconds.

“Well, if you’re coming with-” Sherlock abruptly cleared his throat, “-with the promise of cigarettes, then I suppose its fine.”

John beamed, draining the last dregs from his ever-present mug of tea and striding across the room to pick up his rumpled jacket.

Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade, imperiously ordering him to meet them at St Bart’s mortuary within the next ten minutes.

Sherlock strode with his usual laissez-faire gait and John with his deliberate, measured soldier step through the whitewashed corridors and past the plastic flapping of the swinging doors into the fluorescent luminosity of the hard-edged morgue. Molly flitted about like an absurd butterfly, gloved feelers troubling over clammy, black-lipped cadavers.

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s you,” She said startled, “And erm, John! How nice.”

“I’m here to see the body of Michael Fletcher, Molly.” Sherlock said, paying no notice to her tripping speech.

Sherlock was barely glancing at her, eyes cataloguing the new dimness in the third bulb from the right- _will begin flickering in approximately one week_ , the small spotting of bleach _\- cleaner knocked the bottle on the wainscoting_ , and the new burnished bump on the corner of the steel table- _manhandled through a doorway_.

He noticed the customary loose fists at John’s sides. While he couldn’t say that it gave the man the illusion of any height, Sherlock did note that when he was angled just so, his bearing bore quite the august, well proportioned look of the soldier.

John turned, feeling the eyes on him, and their gazes caught.

“Right, yes,” Said Molly, turning around with a clipboard clutched fiercely to her middle. “That’s wonderful.” She squeezed her eyes, flushing with embarrassment.

“I mean, um, it’s not _wonderful_ \- he’s dead - I just meant-”

“So how did he die, Molly?” John interjected calmly, seeing that Sherlock was going to extend no such courtesy.

“By exsanguination, actually.” The men raised their eyebrows as she moved to unzip the heavy-gloss black body bag on the metal trestle.

“Blood loss,” John marvelled. “That’s rare. How was he injured?”

“Have a look...we’ve already cleaned him up and, um, removed the fork-thing, but it’s left quite a wound behind.”

She wasn’t wrong. The body of Michael Fletcher was a bizarre parody of gore- a gaping hole had been graunched into the underside of his chin, wiped completely clean of blood.

“Forty-one years old,” Molly narrated, “body not in bad condition for a man his age, and his only injuries being the ones you can see on his front.”

Sherlock stepped up as more and more of the man was exposed, peering intently.

A ring of bruising was evident around the base of the throat - _some sort of strap?_ Two surface wounds were scratched into the flesh above the sternum- _small tracks, limited movement of the weapon_ , likely pronged, since Molly had just mentioned a fork of some sort. The deepest scoring was at the bottom of each mark, showing that the tool had been manipulated from an angle consistent with the man’s own chin- hmm _, could it be?_

All doubts were erased when he spied a single word embossed in necrotic tissue over the man’s middle: _Abiuro._

His mind instantly translated the Latin third degree burn. He stood up, smiling, gaze passing first over John, who was struggling to keep a professional expression pulled over his mixture of curiosity and repulsion. And then over to Molly, who was tutting pityingly and rearranging the corpse’s unkempt hair.

“‘I recant,’” Sherlock announced smugly.

“What?” Molly and John chorused.

“It’s Latin,” A flat accent chirped from the doorway, “those burnt words on ‘is belly; they mean ‘I recant’.”

Sherlock turned to glare at the man who stole his thunder.

“You’re late, Detective Inspector.”

“Yeah well some of us have work to do, and can’t just up-and-chuck whenever _his Highness_ commands.”

John’s brows tugged into a momentary frown at the unintended dig.

Sherlock stood up a little straighter and sniffed.

“Which was he, a lawyer or a politician?”

Sherlock was pleased to see the flash of surprise on Lestrade’s face.

“...A lawyer.”

“And I take it you have identified the double-ended murder weapon as the Heretic’s fork?”

The ubiquitous ‘how’ was implicit in the three looks of confusion.

“The word a _biuro_ branded into the skin was the traditional accompaniment to the sleep deprivation torture instigated by the Heretic’s fork; the marks on the breast-bone and wound in the mandible corroborate this, but why choose this particular weapon? It’s a bit of a jump but most likely was a comment on this man’s words or behaviour - he lies for a living, still lot’s of choices - but it’s likely the killer chose this knowing they could understand at least academic Latin- so, politician or lawyer - how was he found?”

Lestrade wordlessly handed over the crime scene photographs.

“John, when would you say the brand was administered?” Sherlock handed him a close up photo of the bloodied injury.

John tucked a hand behind his back and appraised the exposed subcutaneous tissue and the photo in turn.

“Ante-mortem, wouldn’t you say Molly?” He conferred grimly. “And he bled for about a day until he pegged it.”

Sherlock nodded. The picture in front of him showed the victim; upright in a chair and drenched in blood that had obviously issued from the stab-wound in his chin - _must have nicked the artery_. The coronation of red became abruptly splotchy around the groin and upper thighs- _that explained the lack of restraint lesions on the wrists and ankles_. The hands, Sherlock noted, were resting _\- oh so obviously placed_ \- on the knees of the victim; right one palm up, and the left palm down.

“Did you find the band used to secure his hips?” Sherlock asked, still studying the image.

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and shut his mouth, shaking his head in the negative, and scribbling in a notepad he’d pulled from his pocket.

“I need a sample of the wood from both this chair and the one from Victoria Dalton’s murder.”

Lestrade nodded begrudgingly. Sherlock beamed falsely and tucked the envelope of photos underneath his arm.

“Let’s go John; we have work to do.”

John grunted out a perfunctory goodbye and made to follow.

“Oh and Lestrade,” Sherlock called back, “There’s no mistaking it, it is most assuredly the work of the same killer.”

With that, Sherlock blustered out through the door like a gust of well-dressed wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ante-mortem: before death.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment if you have the time. :)


	4. Frankie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Blanket rating of M for references to murder, torture, sexual intercourse, and violence.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me; characters and universe belong to the BBC production of Sherlock. This is written purely for enjoyment, no infringements on copyright are intended and no profit is being made from this story.
> 
> A/N: Thank you to last Chapter's commenters, and all the wonderful kudos.
> 
> As usual, this was beta'ed by the ever-brilliant slendyswatchingme.

They were on their way out, Sherlock shrugging on his coat and John futzing with the keys,  when Sherlock’s phone began bleating shrilly.

“It’s Molly.” Sherlock sighed. “I texted her _once_ and now she takes it upon herself to message or call as much as is socially acceptable.

“So you set her ringtone to the most annoying jingle you could find?”

“If I didn’t, I could unintentionally answer it.”

John levelled him with a crooked eyebrow.

“It’s probably important, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dragged the mobile from his pocket, looking very much put-upon.

“Answer it, John.”

He shoved the device into the doctor’s surprised fingers.

“Oi!”

Sherlock turned on his heel and traipsed downstairs, leaving John to hurriedly hug the phone to his ear and simultaneously lock up.

“Hello?” he answered. “Molly! Yeah, hi...”

“Hmm? His phone, yeah I know-No, no, it was, uh, close at hand-What? No, no nothing likethat, just being considerate, you know...”

An easy little snigger came from where Sherlock was waiting. John fired a dirty look at him.

“So what’s-oh, the tox screen’s just come in?”

John looked pointedly at Sherlock as he joined him on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock cocked his head expectantly.

“Both Victoria Dalton and Michael Fisher had chloroform in their systems?” John was talking to Molly, but had not looked away from Sherlock, whose eyes were alighting with a calculating gleam.

“Nothing else? Right, thanks, Molly. Yeah, I’ll tell him- alright -bye then.”

John thumbed the red receiver symbol and extended the phone to Sherlock.

“Molly says ‘hi.”

Sherlock groaned, reclaiming the mobile with a sweep of fingers.

John bit on the grin threatening to creep over his face. Sherlock saw it and made no attempt to repress his own mischievous smile, which cajoled a chuckle from John, who glanced away to study the street life.

“You’re a real sod, you know,” He jibed.

Sherlock just smirked and hailed a cab.

“Where are we heading off to?” Asked john, ensconced in the musty pleather of the car seat.

“The greater Vauxhall area.”

“Right, okay.”

John nodded at the window, observing the flurry of streaking colours. There was a calm lull in the conversation, and then something clicked in John’s mind.

“Jesus bloody Christ, Sherlock!” He exploded, “Are we going-”

He cut himself short; munching on his sentence with the mortifying thought that the driver could hear him. He began again, with a low hiss this time.

“-for god’s sake, are we going _kerb-crawling_?”

“Well, if you like, John.”

John gaped at him.

“You’re not serious.”

‘You’re right, I’m not,”

Sherlock smothered a smile in his collar.

John hefted himself backwards, relieved.

“I’ve already arranged to meet someone; so there’s no need to scan the streets looking.”

John spluttered.

Sherlock nonchalantly drummed his fingers against his lips, feigning distraction.

Sherlock stopped the cab a few blocks down from Vauxhall station, which the two men then approached, Sherlock with hands burrowed in his pockets and a lazy lope, and John with anxious fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock regarded the grime-and-white tile bowels of the tube station. Boring people brushed past, clutching handbags and briefcases and umbrellas and children. A young twenty something was perched on the end of a shiny metal bench, shoulder-blades stabbing at the thin cotton of a grey hoodie. His trainer-clad feet tapped ceaselessly, and his eyes darted hither and thither, round and a little bit hunted. Sherlock would know the nervy, stinging speed of an addict anywhere.

Sherlock stepped forwards, curving into John’s path.

“That’s him,” He gestured with a glance over a smooth navy collar.

“The bloke with red hair?”

Sherlock nodded.

John was silent, sucking thoughtfully on his teeth.

“Homeless network?”

“Of a sort.”

Sherlock started towards him, scanning for and then discarding most of the deductions he made of the passers-by in the crowd.

The young man looked up. His hair was a scruff of oily disregard, his fingers were bitten to the quick and the underside of his nose had a raw and unmistakeable callous.

John scratched at his eyebrow, trying to disguise his wry surprise.

Sherlock just sat down casually beside the man, saying nothing.

“He said you would meet me here.”

“You mean Billy?” intoned Sherlock.

The waif nodded.

“Me neighbour, sort of.”

“He suggested you might like to get some coffee with us.”

The man noticed John for the first time at the mention of ‘us’. The doctor was scrutinizing the sloped ceiling with unnecessary interest, hands in his pockets, face determinedly blank.

A look of apprehension dug into the man’s expression.

“Just coffee,” Sherlock assured.

The man snapped his gaze back to Sherlock, unconsciously chewing on his lower lip. He then stood up,

“I’m Frankie.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock graciously smiled. “And John.”

The army doctor gave a curt nod.

“I know a cafe,” Frankie stated from the bench, but Sherlock held him back, a thoughtful tilt to his head.

“Just a quick question,” Sherlock pulled a taut smile. “Are you aware that a man named Michael Fisher has been murdered?”

Frankie blinked, then his adam’s apple began to work furiously, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a long moment.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

John and Sherlock both quirked sceptical eyebrows.

“And the last time you saw him was Sunday evening, correct?” Sherlock casually continued.

Frankie stepped back in shock, his cracked lips trembling.

John was looking from Sherlock to the man, assessing. He fixed the man with an earnest look.

“We need to be sure of the facts, Frankie, we’re trying to help.”

Glassy lids slid tiredly closed over Frankie’s wide eyes.

“I was worried when I hadn’t heard from him,” He mumbled in defeated. “He always calls on a Wednesday.”

Sherlock straightened up, puncturing a false smile into his cheeks.

“Why don’t we go for that cuppa, it will be a comfort I’m sure.”

Frankie gave him a wan and weary smile.

John collected his jaw up from the floor and rubbed the grin away with a vigorous hand over his face.

The young man - wrists so thin John could see the jut of the radius bone and the blue contours of his veins - led the way.

The cafe was a breath of white linen and hot burnt sugar. It was small, as were the prices scribbled in white chalk above the counter, but it was clean and neat as a pin. Frankie shrunk into a corner seat. John approached the counter and set about ordering. Sherlock flounced into the chair opposite the young man.

“How did you know I saw him Sunday?” Frankie was asking Sherlock as John sat down.

“Oh, don’t get him started,” John hummed with a wide, bland smile. “You’re in for trouble if he decides you’re too stupid to know, and you’re in for worse if he decides to actually tell you.”

Sherlock folded his arms and harrumphed but was secretly pleased at John’s attempt to lift the suspicious, sombre cloud from Frankie’s mood. This information could prove imperative to the case, and they would be going nowhere if Frankie was too wound up to speak honestly.

“Please, John,” retorted Sherlock, “You make threats on my life daily, and over such trivialities as milk and keratin experiments.”

“For the love of all that is holy, Sherlock, if I ever find that collection of fingernails anywhere near something we eat again, I _will_ torch everything you’ve ever loved.”

“You’re the only one that eats the stuff; and Marmite should really not be considered edible besides.”

The barista called out their receipt number and John stood abruptly, pulled from his focus on Sherlock and the bickering.  He tried not to flinch as he realised just how absorbed he could become talking to Sherlock. John glanced sheepishly at Frankie as he returned with the crinkle-cut cardboard cups, relieved to see that the man wore a sort of indulgent smile- albeit nervous and faltering.

Sherlock took a long slurp from his cup, grimacing slightly.

“Adequate,” he begrudged the brew, “ But you would never leave the grinds to sit for so long and then _microwave_ it.” He said to John, who flashed him a smile.

“So you two, “Frankie interjected, “‘Ave shacked up together?”

Before John could stammer out a ‘just flatmates’ Frankie had continued, a fragile, wistful gaze fixed on the swirling in his cup.

“Mike always said that we would get up and run off somewheres else. When he got rich enough.”

John was thrown for a bit of a loop before everything slotted into place.

It seemed that Frankie had been involved with Michael Fisher, their most recent deceased. But he was obviously a coke addict, and living rather rough. John had thought him to be homeless at first. How would a middleclass man like Fisher have gotten stuck in with an emaciated kid like this? The answer must have shown in his eyes, because Sherlock gave him a controlled nod.

So Frankie was a sexworker, then.

How on earth had Sherlock known?

John lifted his cup to busy himself, Sherlock kept silent as well, hoping that Frankie would continue.

“He took care of me, you know,” Frankie told his coffee. “Tried to give me gifts an’ all, but I wouldn’t have none of that, ‘specially when I was all but livin’ offa him.”

“He was your only client,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question.

“He was hardly a client!” Frankie bit out, looking up at Sherlock to glare with angry, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Frankie,” John spoke softly.

Frankie had turned back to his drink and mumbled something in acceptance.

“How did he die?”

John exchanged a look with Sherlock, which prompted Frankie to clench his fists hard on the table, his knuckles turning as white as the paper.

“He was...stabbed,” John spoke reluctantly. “I’m not entirely sure we should divulge the rest of the details while the investigation is still ongoing.”

“I thought you weren’t coppers,” he said.” Billy wouldn’ta talked to you if you was.”

“We’re not; Sherlock’s just helping with the investigation.”

“I’m a Consulting Detective and John is my blogger,” Sherlock said, indulging in a smile. He knew he was a possessive man, and there really was something to be said for being able to claim one’s own soldier-doctor-blogger.

Frankie seemed to be swallowing a stone, rather than milky froth. His words were too lightly spoken to be nonchalant.

“Mike likes that sort of thing, I think,” he found an encouraging crease on the Doctor’s face, and continued. “Always tappin’ away at that laptop, an’ me always saying that I should be getting jealous of it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with recognition, and John wondered what about playful jealousy between lovers was related to the puzzle.

“Could you tell us what happened the Sunday you last saw him?” Sherlock’s voice was low with concern, though John figured it was more for the conundrum in his brain than the scrawny rent-boy.

Frankie seemed marooned by the question, cringing away, staring at the coffee cup.

“How about some nibbles, yeah?” John didn’t wait for confirmation, and left the two in silence until he returned bearing three muffins and serviettes, plumped over the edges of their wax-paper.

Sherlock eyed the muffin as it was placed before him.

“You know I’m not going to eat this.”

“Then Frankie can have two, if he likes,” John prompted.

Sherlock huffed and pushed it away.

John set his own confection down and pinched bites off with his fingers, eating suspiciously slowly.

 “There’s not much to tell, really.” Frankie admitted.

“About the day -about Sunday?” John asked.

“Yeah, I mean, it weren’t anything out of the ordinary...”

Frankie went on to detail how  they had spent the weekend in, with the only mention of anything that Sherlock found of worth being  a mention of a business meeting that Fisher would have gone to that Sunday after Frankie had left.

It was not much, but as they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock had already formulated a possible motive for the seemingly random serial killings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vauxhall: I don't live in England, so I apologise for using yahoo answers and obscure web searches to determine the red light districts and prostitute pick-up areas. Apparently around Vauxhall area you can procure such services. Lol idk.
> 
> As always, I would love, love, love to get a comment! Questions, confusions, anything really, please don't be shy!


	5. Scribbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, everyone. :/ Hope you enjoy it... :)   
> Huge thanks to my beta: Slendyswatchingme!

Chapter Five: Scribbles

 

 

The Personal Diary of Dr John H Watson

DON’T YOU EVEN DARE, SHERLOCK.

26th of April 2012

Dear Diary;

So the new case is heating up, been running about all hours of the day following Sherlock’s flappy coat-tails, talking to prostitutes and such.

 Oh, yes; we met a certain Frankie Stevenson, who, as it turns out, was lover to Michael Fisher, the poor lawyer-bloke who had his jaw torn up. Actually, they’re both to be pitied; that Frankie was skin and bone and obviously a junkie. I don’t want to imagine what he’s going to have to do to keep himself together now that Fisher is gone. I gave him my address at the surgery, actually, told him to call in if things are heading too far south. I can offer that, at least.

Sherlock did something weird. Again. Bit stranger than weird actually. Well, it was not so much a _thing_ as a _look_. You know how he gets all those looks of his; usually variations on the themes of, ‘how can you be so stupid’ and ‘no, idiot, obviously not’? Well, this look was, for want of a seriously better word, kind of... soft. While he was eating my muffin. Um. I’d say tender but then Sherlock is never tender.  But it was a nice muffin, from a cafe. I got it for him anyway, since I knew he’d only eat if I made it seem like he shouldn’t. So yeah. I was surreptitiously shoving this plate of muffin under his nose and he was munching and deducing at the poor Frankie bloke, and I guessed he figured out my rather un-subtle ploy (I can tell by now, when the light dawns and he lits his chin), but he didn’t mention it; he only got this look which I’ve already said was soft, glowy... nevermind, it was weird. Was it a good thing? I couldn’t tell if it was or not. Building trust with Sherlock is like waiting for a crab to crawl from out from under its rock, and then having to sneak up from behind it and pounce with a rough-hewn net.

So, that was a whole lot of verbiage on nothing much; just my staring at Sherlock. Not that that should sound peculiar. Because it isn’t, not really. A lot of people stare at him.

It’s my diary anyway, and I know what’s what, no need to explain myself to myself.

Um.

The murders. Yeah.  Sherlock says there will be another one by the end of the week, and he’s waiting on it to confirm his theory on the motive.

I mean, it became clear after the bodies were placed in identical poses that this was the same murderer, and with such ritualistic positioning, the killer has chosen his victims from specific criteria, and, since there seemed to be no ‘type’ and there was no sign of any sexual violence (thank heavens, poor buggers) that the killings weren’t sexually motivated at all. In fact, since it was the only overlap between the two victims that has come up so far in the investigation, Sherlock figures it was because they were both gay.

It’s some very sort of convoluted hate crime, and Lestrade seems to agree. He mentioned he would be contacting a profiler from within the force. Sherlock thought that was funny alright, and Lestrade made me swear that I’d keep him away from the poor unfortunate when they do arrive.

As it happens, Greg’s been a delight - an absolute ray of bleeding sunshine - since this serial killing landed on his desk. He keeps clearing his throat at me, and giving me ‘pointed looks’ and rocking on his heels while giving me his best interrogator’s ‘you know that I know so come off it’ look. There’s something here that I’m supposed to decipher, but bully for him because I have not one whit of a clue what he’s trying to not-so-inconspicuously tell me.

So that’s it, really. I’m going to mosey on into the lounge for a cuppa, maybe sit around a little, and no doubt Sherlock will be there to invade my silence by telling me how prosaic it is. The git. Better make some tea for him as well.

* * *

Starting computer...

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Login: Sherlock Holmes

Password: **********

_Welcome!_

Start->My Documents -> Open Folder: Genetics-> Open Folder: Genetic Modification -> Open Folder: Studies ->Open Document: GM Crop effects on Monarch butterflies.docx

26/04/2012

My documentation of John continues. As per usual, my bias and proximity must be taken into account in order to minimise on exaggeration.

On the subject of empathy, John is continually raising his previously recorded levels. He has extended his physician’s aid to a complete stranger, with whom he has had no previous affinity, and without ulterior motive. He also continues to frown over the fates of the victims, completely ineffectively- he knows that giving himself further lines of worry cannot help anyone.

I sometimes speculate as to a directly proportional relationship between his capacity for care and the lines upon his face.

 Unthinkably, John worries about people that really do not deserve the time of day.

He employed yet another of his tricks to nourish me. It was effective, to my endless chagrin. I shall certainly end up fat like Mycroft. Curiously, he was not deterred from eating when sharing a morsel.

With all these free radicals of John’s kindness and overall goodness floating around I find myself often revealing too much of an emotive response. The sociopath cannot have unfortunate slip-ups such as those.  

They are becoming more frequent of late. When faced with the dogged optimism of John Watson even stoics, such as I, are susceptible to infection.

My subconscious is poking irascibly into my side, and I’m caught off guard by it’s... yearnings. It is one thing to suppress it (which I manage faultlessly) and it is entirely another thing to _want_ to suppress it. My wanting of things is very destructive, and this particular wish is convoluted to the extreme. I want to express it, but if the expressing of it becomes destructive towards this amiable set up or to the person in question, then I will not have any part of it.

I abhor repetition, but in this case I feel it is necessary to again vehemently voice my distaste for that toxin called sentiment.

It has bred in me strange wishes. The newest of which is to make John cups of tea. No doubt they will be accepted graciously and with marked repression of his surprise. No doubt he will warm to me, thinking that I am mellowing, and beginning to show the empathy he believes I possess. The truth is that such an action is entirely selfish, and unrepentantly so.

Perhaps let me give in to these flights of fancy. A weakness, yes, but perhaps strategic to reveal to John, in order to further secure his loyalty.

Or I could stop deceiving myself, knowing full well that the loyalty of John Watson is already mine, and admit my motivations in wanting to do something compassionate. But truly, they are too dull to type, far too predictable and pedestrian. And they are further weakness, and cannot possibly benefit my work at all.

Rather, such things should be expunged, and locked away inside false documents never to grace the eyes of others. Besides, it is around time for John to finish writing on his personal journal that he thinks I know nothing of, and stow it inside the rip on the underside of his mattress, where he thinks I would never find it. He will putter around in the kitchen, and yet again the tea making conundrum will present itself to me.

Close->Close -> Close -> Close -> Close-> Start -> Shut Down

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how do you like? I really look forward to hearing from you! Thanks for reading! (And sorry again that this took such a long while to update...)

**Author's Note:**

> The blood in the lungs was a pulmonary oedema: an abnormal build-up of fluid in the air sacs of the lungs. There are many causes, most commonly being prolonged bronchial infection or heart failure.
> 
> Long explanation is that pressure in the veins going through the lungs starts to rise. As the pressure in these blood vessels increases, fluid is pushed into the air spaces (alveoli) in the lungs. This fluid interrupts normal oxygen movement through the lungs. (heehee...with Wikipedia, you too can be a doctor!)
> 
> I'd love to here what you think, please drop a comment!


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